Every August, my father would make his annual journey to St. Joseph's Church on the Lower East Side to celebrate the Feast of St. Rocco. To be honest, as a child and even as an adult I didn't participate in this annual event because I felt there were other important things to do. I was wrong.

Each year when my father traveled, it seemed that the temperature was hotter than the previous year. It was because of the heat, humidity and age that my father decided to stay home this year and I elected to go in his place. I felt the need to keep the tradition alive that started in the 1930s and 1940s with my grandfather carrying the patron saint down Roosevelt Street (which no longer exists).

I was fully aware that the weather forecast was for sunny skies and 90-degree temperature and the luck of knowing at least three people would be slim, but I still went.

Like most people, I learned of St. Rocco through stories of my parents and grandparents, for he is the patron saint of the sick, who lived in Potenza, Italy.

The pictures, images and stories told are not even close to experiencing it in real life. The organizers and volunteers treat St. Rocco as he is still alive as if is a son, brother or friend.

With the band playing and the elderly ladies singing patriotic Italian and American songs, you couldn't help but feel the passion and devotion of those who keep the feast alive.

When I headed home on the Staten Island Ferry, I wasn't tired from the heat and humidity of the day, but rather was able to capture the moments my father shared with family and friends over the years.

It was the first time I felt a connection with grandfather's journey to America from Potenza, Italy.